


Ever After

by Liu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry is still coping with Zoom, Comfort/Angst, Loss of Powers, M/M, Memory Alteration, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, barry-centric, partially based on s03 trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 04:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8042224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: When Barry runs back in time to save his mother, he definitely does not expect to find out that in the new timeline, he's Leonard Snart's boyfriend.





	Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ColdFlash Big Bang 2016, great thanks to the wonderful organizers! :) I signed up for a 5k, but, alas, here's 12k instead XD
> 
> Also great thanks to my wonderful beta, murphydjones, and the incredible artist gaberoothekangaroo who provided [the wonderful illustration](http://gabrielcasillasillustration.com/post/150440245417/i-was-able-to-paint-a-scene-from-the)! Thank you so, so much, both of you :)

The house is nothing like Barry remembers it.

His freshest memories are full of flaky walls, overgrown lawns and rickety staircases; his heart actually picks up the pace at the sight of it, reminding him of blue lightning and grey nights. The fear grips him so hard that breathing becomes a chore, for a moment – but then the front door opens and his mother walks out, his beautiful, smiling mother, face lined with years that never had the chance to catch up with her before, her hair still that fiery red that Barry remembers from his childhood.

Her hand is warm on Barry’s shoulder, squeezing a bit as her eyes, gentle and concerned, search his face.

“What’s wrong, Barry?” she asks, voice soft and worried, and Barry can’t help himself. He collapses into her embrace, wraps his arms around her and just breathes her in, the same perfume he couldn’t quite remember since he was thirteen, the same cardigan he remembers from under the Christmas tree when he was nine. It’s worn now, soft and comforting just like her hands on his back, rubbing soothing circles into his jacket, and he feels like he’s standing in the middle of the street at night again, young and frightened out of his mind, but it’s nothing like that because _she_ is here.

“Nothing,” he croaks, his voice muffled where his mouth is pressed into her shoulder. “Where’s Dad?”

“He went out to get the cake – honey, are you sure you’re alright?”

Barry’s heart stops for a moment, but that’s ridiculous: people are allowed to go grocery shopping or whatever, without meeting their untimely deaths. He tries to rationalize for a moment, convince himself that his Dad will be back soon, but it doesn’t quite work, so Barry redirects his attention to his mother again, pulling back from her embrace before she can truly start questioning his sanity. That’s the last thing he wants: to be reunited with his parents only to cause them to worry.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and forces a smile – it feels wrong that it doesn’t come naturally to his lips, all things considered. It’s a beautiful day, sunny but not too warm, and the late afternoon light bathes the house in a warm, almost surreal glow that makes Barry think of fairytales. “I’m fine. I just missed you.”

She can’t even imagine how much; her brow creases in a puzzled expression, making the lines etched into her face even more pronounced.

“You just saw me four days ago, Barry. Don’t tell me you’re that worried about me?”

Barry wants to blurt out ‘yes’, but he has a feeling that what he’s worried about isn’t what she’s thinking, so he closes his mouth again and just looks at her, until she relents and smiles a little:

“Well, I wanted to tell you all together, but I won’t have you suffering like this. I’m fine – the lab results came back this morning, and doctor Smith called immediately. It was really just a myoma. Now, take a deep breath and let me make you some tea before dinner, how about that?”

The thought that he could’ve lost her so soon after getting her back, to a disease he couldn’t outrun or change, makes Barry’s chest tight and painful again, but he shoves that fear deep down for the moment. He laughs, relief with just a slight edge of hysteria, and he lets himself be pulled into the house that hasn’t been his home for almost fifteen years, straight back to the times when his only worry was that the older boys at school would steal his lunch again.

The house smells like his childhood, like all the good things he never really noticed before they were taken from him, and he can’t help but look around in wonder while her back is turned to him. There are photos on the walls, his parents’ friends and holiday pictures, Barry in his graduation gown, wearing dorky glasses and a huge, carefree smile. It makes something in his chest hurt, to think that he never got to see his parents be proud of him, but he feels ungrateful in the next moment. He has his mother back, and his father, too, and he should not be mourning the moments lost in the flow of this timeline.

Even the tea that she hands him smells like home, even though it’s a generic fruity blend he’s bought for himself numerous times. He sips and tries not to ogle the house he should be painfully familiar with, but his eyes keep picking out the tiniest things like a screwed-up game of spot-the-difference. There’s a vase he doesn’t recognize, a throw pillow he doesn’t recall; his mother’s wearing a necklace Barry thinks he saw a few times on a classmate, or maybe on Iris, but he doesn’t think his mother owned it before.

He tries to remind himself that all these things mean that his parents are alive, and have been living their lives past the point that Barry remembers. It brings momentary relief, but he remains vaguely tense for a long while, until the door creaks open and Barry’s head snaps up from the table. It’s his father, and seeing his smiling face makes Barry’s eyes burn again. He pushes his chair back and tries to look normal as he wraps his father in a tight hug.

“Hey, slugger. You okay?”

Barry can almost see the way his father must be looking at his mother, the same silent communication thing they used to do when he was little and he would get so confused about how that worked.

“Fine,” he says – and it doesn’t feel any truer than when he answered his mother, but it sounds a little more believable, and Barry thinks that maybe he only has to say it enough for it to become true in the end. He can still remember way too much of the bad stuff; he only needs a few days to settle into the good, for sure.

They tell him to take a seat and wait for dinner – so he does, takes a seat in the kitchen and watches them both bustle around the kitchen, pulling out plates and glasses, setting the table, stirring some sauce, checking the oven. They keep talking about their days, his father describing a difficult case and his mother talking about so many children that Barry assumes after a while she must be working at a daycare center. Henry playfully refuses to let anyone see the cake until it’s time to blow out the candles, and Nora swats at his arm, laughing. A quick glance at the calendar tells him it’s his mother’s birthday, and it feels like fate that he should change the world for her on this very day. A brief flutter of panic surges up in his stomach as he realizes he has no gift for her – but he can play it cool, tell her that it wasn’t delivered in time. He will have to go shopping for a truly great present, tomorrow, even though he has no idea what she might like. The last time he celebrated his birthday with her, handmade cards and crayon pictures were still acceptable, but he wants to make her really happy now, find something that she is going to love.

He’s still thinking about possible gifts when his mother turns to him, eyebrow raised and the echoes of laughter still in her voice:

“What about your better half?”

The question catches Barry off-guard, and a memory of Iris resurfaces, Iris who promised to wait for him until he fixed it all. The thought that now might be the time when he actually gets to try is both satisfying and frightening in equal measure. Truth is, he doesn’t know anything about this world and his role in it, about whether or not they’re married, engaged, or just dating, so he answers as vaguely as possible, shrugging and smiling at his mom:

“Something came up. Why, am I not enough company for you two?”

He means for it to be a joke, and it comes out at least partially that, but there’s a stab of something in his chest again, something nasty and fearful and jealous. His mother must see it, or maybe hear it in his words, because her eyes soften again and she shakes his head, grasping his shoulder as she passes him on her way to the fridge.

“Of course not, don’t be silly. I was just wondering how much cake we’ll have left, with only the three of us… that young man of yours has quite a sweet tooth.”

Barry doesn’t miss the quiet huff his father lets out, but he’s too focused on the ‘young man’ part to truly care. He can’t say he didn’t expect to be in a relationship with someone else than Iris in this new world; that was partly the reason why he told her no, back on that porch, just a few hours ago. They used to be friends in middle school, but Barry isn’t naïve enough to think that if they didn’t share their lives under the same roof, they would not have drifted apart a little. He would love to believe that Iris, beautiful, popular, smart, kickass Iris, would have found her way to him in the end, but apparently, that is not the case in this world. It stings a little, but it’s not unimaginable, considering how many years (and how much tragedy) it took for him to confess, and for her to even acknowledge his feelings.

What he hasn’t considered is the possibility that he might have fallen for another man.

He barely has the time to come into terms with the fact that his one mild gay crush in college has somehow turned into him seriously dating a guy (or at least seriously enough to bring him home to his parents) before they can hear the front door open again. Barry doesn’t really think about the possibility of it being the ‘better half’ – he wonders whether his mother has invited some friends for her birthday dinner up until the newcomer pokes his head in the door.

And Barry’s eyes go wide.

“Sorry I’m late,” Leonard Snart says, with that cocky smirk of his, holding up a carton box, “I come bearing that baklava you liked last time, by way of apology.”

Barry’s out of his chair before he can think about it, his mind whirring with a dozen horrid scenarios at once. But before he can scream for his parents to take cover from _Captain Cold_ in their house, his mother rounds the table with a wide smile playing on her lips, and Barry realizes that Cold was not addressing Barry at all.

“Lenny!” she exclaims, and she actually sounds happy to see him. The moment goes from surreal to downright crazy in the few seconds it takes her to reach the criminal and wrap her arms around him. Cold kisses her cheek and sets the box on the nearest countertop, and for the first time, Barry thinks that he might have broken the world for real.

He opens his mouth to ask what the fuck Cold thinks he’s doing, invading Barry’s home like this, but the answer becomes painfully clear when the villain extricates himself from Nora Allen’s embrace and spots Barry, still standing by the table.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice goes soft, so different from his usual snarky, biting tone that Barry can only blink. This can’t be. It’s impossible that he would ever date _Captain Cold_ – the man is cruel, vindictive and selfish, why would Barry ever want someone like that?!

Except that Barry’s mind chooses that very moment (while the villain in question is walking closer, leaning towards Barry, kissing his cheek as well) to remind him of Cold’s eyes when he thought his sister was in danger. He recalls Christmas, and Cold warning him about Mardon, smirking and teasing but warning him all the same… but it’s still not enough to quell the nausea rolling in his stomach.

Barry chokes out a vague apology and bolts out of the kitchen, only taking another breath when the bathroom door closes behind him. He leans on the sink and focuses on getting enough air in his lungs for a moment, but he still looks freaked out by the time he’s ready to look up at the mirror.

_What the fuck_ , he mouths at his reflection, shaking his head.

A knock on the door interrupts the building panic in his chest and he reaches for the doorknob without thinking, expecting his mother or his father on the other side. Unfortunately for him, it’s Snart again, a spectacular frown on his face, eyes moving up and down Barry’s body like he’s checking for damage.

“You alright?” he asks, and Barry almost wants to laugh because Cold sounds like he actually cares. And maybe he does, in this messed-up world that looked like a fairy tale mere moments earlier – the thought twists Barry’s stomach again, and he takes a step away, backing himself against the sink when Snart steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind himself.

“Look, I think I know what this is about,” Snart says quietly, and he seems uncomfortable, shy, almost bashful. It’s a strange look on him, unsettling to see on a man who is usually so self-assured, and Barry almost wants to ask what’s wrong with _Snart_. He pushes that sudden urge away as hard as he can – he is not here to feel concerned about criminals. Snart doesn’t seem to notice Barry’s internal struggle and he soldiers on with the words that obviously don’t come easy. “I found the ring. I wasn’t intentionally looking, just… the cereal box, really, Barry?”

He gives Barry a fondly exasperated look then, and Barry blinks. Ring…? That can’t mean…

“I don’t want you to feel pressured,” Cold says, and he couldn’t have chosen more ironic words to speak if he tried. Everything about this makes Barry feel under pressure to settle into a life he would not have chosen for himself, his dream of getting his parents back marred by the unexpected complication of one Leonard Snart. Who remains completely oblivious to Barry’s dilemma as he continues:

“If you changed your mind, that’s fine by me. I know marriage means more to you than it does to me – and when I see Nora and Henry, after all these years together, I understand why. But I want you to know that you don’t have to act like… like you’re scared of me because you’re freaking out about asking me to marry you.”

Barry’s heartbeat is almost painful against his ribs, and he turns away, unable to look at Snart’s worried face any longer, even though it feels wrong, dangerous to turn his back to the man. The drain of the sink doesn’t give Barry any answers, though, and all he can think of is the way Snart keeps looking at him. It’s exactly the way Barry used to hope Iris could look at him one day, unquestionable devotion and care and… yes, love.

“Thanks,” he croaks, throat dry and eyes stinging, because that’s the only thing he can think of. He wishes that he could just tell Snart it’s not working, that they should call it quits, but then he recalls his mother’s happy face when Snart arrived, and Barry knows without doubt that he can’t break up with his criminal boyfriend on his mother’s birthday. He will have to think of a way to do it later, preferably without Snart taking it out on his family, but now’s not the time or the place.

“We can go home after dinner, watch some movie, chill,” Snart offers, all tentative and careful, and Barry’s stomach flips viciously at the thought that his ‘home’ in this world includes Captain Cold. Who, obviously, has awful winter-related puns coded into his genetics, because even without the gun, he just said ‘chill’ with a straight face.

“I think- I’d rather stay here, for the night. You know – because of mom,” he adds quickly, because Snart looks like a kicked puppy all of a sudden and Barry’s always been weak against causing pain to others.

Snart glances up at that and his frown deepens. “Is she…?”

Damn – Barry can’t get anything right in this world. Of course Snart would be worried, if the way he greeted his mother after his arrival is any indication.

“No, she’s fine. She’s got her results, she says it was just a myoma,” Barry repeats what his mother told him, and hopes that will put Snart at ease. “But I was worried. I didn’t realize how much until she told me she was gonna be okay and… I’d like to stay here tonight.”

It feels too much as if he’s asking permission, and he doesn’t necessarily like it, but Snart nods slowly, like he understands. Barry’s both relieved and a little resentful about that, but he decides not to poke into it further and spoil his chances of avoiding the talk with Snart for one more night.

“Do what you have to,” Snart says, and steps closer; a shiver runs down Barry’s spine when the man leans closer, smelling like aftershave and fabric softener, and plants a warm kiss on Barry’s cheek. Then he steps out of the bathroom and leaves Barry to stare at himself in the mirror, wondering how it could be that his life got so much better and so much worse at the same damn time.

…

Dinner is a quiet affair, on Barry’s part. His mother and Snart supply most of the conversation, with Henry’s occasional interjections – but whenever a question flies Barry’s way, he can’t answer with more than a few words. He doesn’t really know any of the stuff they’re talking about; he doesn’t know about his mother’s daycare, even though she talks to him as if he were well-acquainted with names like ‘little Toby’ and ‘the Jeffries twins’. He nods and smiles and makes appropriate noises, but he feels left out more than anything. The lives of his mother and his father, so it seems, have gone by without him, even though some version of him has been obviously present – and he should be happy that they got to have the fifteen years they never had in Barry’s original timeline, but he can’t help the dejected, jealous something shadowing the happier thoughts.

“So how’s work?” his father asks, from across the table, probably lost in the conversation on child psychology happening between Nora and Snart. Barry focuses on his dad and his mind fills with forensics, quickly replaced by black holes and singularities and the memory of Zoom murdering Henry Allen in this very house. He can’t talk about that – he can never talk about that again, with anyone, and the knowledge drops on him with the weight of the world, _his_ world, one that these people will never know.

Barry takes a sip from his wine to stall, but even the few seconds the gesture gains him aren’t enough to come up with more than ‘good, thanks’.

“Rathaway still giving you trouble?”

Last time Barry saw him, he was helping Team Flash with Time Wraiths. There’s no Team Flash in this world, probably, and Hartley could be anywhere, doing anything.

“It’s… manageable,” he shrugs, and Henry lets it go because Snart turns to him with some kinda medical question. Barry hates that he’s relieved his father’s not talking to him anymore, and he tunes out the conversation for a couple of minutes.

By the time dessert’s over (with Snart having polished off three slices of cake and a generous serving of baklava), Barry’s exhausted, and he wants nothing more than to go to sleep, fall into bed and maybe wake up without all these conflicting, strange things in his head that make it feel like he’s watching the world from behind a thick glass wall.

Barry helps his mother clear the dishes from the table and broaches the subject of his sleepover.

“I was thinking… can I stay over? Just for tonight.”

She gives him a strange look, but doesn’t reply until the dishwasher’s loaded. Then, she turns to him, and he can see the concern in his eyes that makes him wish he could just act normal, or at least normal for the standards of this timeline.

Her gaze steals towards the dining room, where the voices of Snart and Barry’s father can still be heard, heatedly debating the merits of football versus baseball.

“Barry… of course you can, you know that this is your home, but… are you sure everything’s alright? Are you two fighting?”

It’s not really a fight when one person’s not even aware of the specifics of the relationship, so there’s no way for Barry to answer that except shake his head and look away.

“No. It’s just… I was worried. About you. And I’d like to stay, just for one night, I won’t bother you, I promise-“

“You never bother me,” she halts his rambling and steps close, touching his cheek with a gentle, warm hand. “You’re my son, Barry, and you’re always welcome here. I told you I’m fine, and if it makes you feel better, you can stay as long as you want to. But you’ve been acting strange tonight, and you haven’t stayed the night since you moved in with Lenny, so I can’t help but worry. I want you to be happy, Barry, you know that, right?”

He smiles – of course he knows. The one thing he remembers is the way she used to look at him when he came home with scraped knees and muddy clothes, chased by his bullies once again. He wishes he could tell her what that memory has meant to him, over the years, but she knows a different Barry, one that has never had to deal with the loss of her, and he can’t bring himself to tell her about all the pain. So he nods, closes his eyes for a moment against her touch on his cheek and tries to think of something to say that would put her at ease without being too much of a lie.

“It’s just… we’ve got some differences. Nothing serious. I really want to stay to be close to you, and dad.”

If the mention of his father surprises her, she doesn’t let on; instead, she pats his cheek and turns to the counter, putting the leftovers away.

“Alright then. But if you need to talk, I’m here for you, darling. Whatever it is, I’m sure you and Lenny will get through it, with just a bit of honesty.”

Barry’s not so sure, but he can’t really say that out loud, not yet.

He ignores his father’s raised eyebrows when he tells Snart goodbye at the door, endures another kiss on the cheek and then stays behind. His mother touches his father’s elbow and Barry’s aware they’re going to talk about him, but he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to be asked more questions he can’t answer, so he mutters something about a shower and bolts up the stairs.

His room is different from the way he remembers it – the aquarium and plane models are gone, and the walls are a cheerful orange, covered with posters of bands a high school kid would listen to. Two of the posters are the same ones he used to have up at Joe’s, and it makes Barry choke a little, the tiny spot of similarity between two worlds so vastly different. His bed’s the same, too, and he collapses into the sheets that smell of his mother’s laundry and make his eyes water. Eventually he manages to get out of his jeans and slip under the covers, after the house goes quiet and his parents come by to say goodnight – but he can’t sleep, tossing and turning and listening for the sounds of his mother’s screams. When he does fall asleep for a while, his dreams are full of blue and yellow lightning and he wakes up gasping in the dark, his heart racing and his mind full of tangled, horrible ‘what if’s. He ends up walking quietly down the hall, to the half-open door of his parents’ bedroom; quiet snores echo in tandem from within, and Barry leans against the wall, sliding down to the wooden floor and listening to his parents breathe until the sky goes pale with the approaching morning.

…

His mother makes pancakes for breakfast, and talks about some field trip the daycare kids are taking today. It’s easy to pretend he belongs here, and Barry even finds himself laughing at some of his mother’s wilder predictions about the antics the kids are surely to get into at the zoo.

Then, his phone rings, and it’s not his phone, even though it’s in his jacket; Barry doesn’t recognize the ringtone until his father gives him a pointed look and asks if Barry isn’t going to get that. He doesn’t even recognize the make of the phone when he fishes it out of his pocket, and he doesn’t know how it got there. It says ‘Duke’ and Barry fishes in his memory for anyone with that name.

“Hello?” he says, tentatively, when the phone starts ringing again and he decides he has to pick up eventually.

“’Hello’? What the heck do you mean ‘hello’, Barry, where are you?! Ramon’s going mental, you were supposed to finish that report yesterday!”

“Who’s this?” Barry blurts before he can think better of it; there’s silence on the other end for a beat, and then an amused chuckle, and the voice (male, late twenties to early thirties, Barry would guess) lowers.

“Dude, faking amnesia is not gonna cut it. Get your ass to Ramon Industries a.s.a.p. or the boss will have your hide.”

The call clicks to an end and Barry is left staring at his phone in confusion. Then, he sees that the WiFi has connected automatically and thanks his luck for that, because he has no idea what his parents’ password might be and he has a feeling it would be considered weird if he asked. He sends a quick prayer towards the heavens that this version of the world includes Facebook, and sighs in relief when he finds the familiar blue icon.

He finds his own profile and stares at the info. Went to Keystone University, works at Ramon Industries… in a relationship with Len Snart. His finger hovers over the name for a second before he remembers he’s likely late for work, and his best bet is quickly finding out who Duke is, so that he doesn’t make an idiot of himself… and to search for the address to Ramon Industries.

The only guy named Duke among Barry’s friends is one Duke Kekoa, a cheerful-looking ‘Interdisciplinary Engineer at Ramon Industries’ dressed in a bright blue Ravenclaw T-shirt for his profile picture. Barry repeats the name a couple of times in his head, but it doesn’t ring a bell, not really, so he focuses on the address of his workplace.

“Gotta go! See you later!” he calls to his parents, trying to make sense of a map of the city he grew up in and now looks a bit off. He’s five steps down the driveway when he realizes that he planned to run there, at Flash speed.

And he can’t.

He tries again, but his feet feel heavy against the pavement, just like they used to whenever he tried to get into jogging, back before he got struck by lightning. He wastes a good minute just staring at his hands, at his feet, but the speed force refuses to answer and Barry more collapses than crouches down, trying to rationalize, to calm himself, to stop thinking about what would happen if Zoom or Eobard or anyone else decided to go after him, after his parents or friends or the whole city.

Five more minutes pass while he gulps down shallow breaths and rubs the heel of his hand against the stabbing pain in his chest. He can’t just sit in the street all day, though, no matter how much it seems like an option. He forces himself to his feet, even though his whole body is sluggish and barely responsive, and scrolls through his contacts until he finds a number for a taxi.

He barely sees the city pass through the car window, caught up in the myriad of questions about why he’s lost his speed. It’s happened to him before, and what he had to do to regain his powers was not pleasant… but now, Barry can’t shake the feeling that this is permanent, that Barry Allen of this world is perhaps not connected to the speed force at all.

Maybe the world is trying to re-integrate him, bit by bit, and his powers are the first to go. Barry doesn’t quite know what to do with that thought, pervasive as it is; he doesn’t think he’d want to forget everything Joe has done for him, every moment with Iris, his friendships and his struggles and his _life_ from before. At the same time, he can’t help but desperately yearn to feel at home in his own home, with his parents, with the life he’s created for himself in this reality.

Ramon Industries is a huge building, concrete and metal and tastefully arranged wooden beams that grant it a warmer look. Barry still doesn’t quite connect the dots until he steps into the foyer and is greeted with a huge screen projecting the face of ‘Cisco Ramon, Ph.D., Founder & CEO’. He swallows the gasp and only half-listens to the speech about the future of modern science, something about a vision and cutting-edge technologies. His daze is interrupted by the same voice that echoes through the marble foyer from the speakers.

“Finally! I was wondering whether you went and died on me, Allen.”

Barry turns in confusion and barely recognizes Cisco: his hair’s longer, pulled back into a neat ponytail, and his suit looks made for him, in a way none of Cisco’s clothes have ever looked before. He carries himself with easy confidence that Barry doesn’t remember, but he gives off an almost intimidating vibe, unapproachable and superior.

“Cisco,” he breathes, and the man who looks like one of his best friends gives him a hard stare.

“That’s ‘doctor Ramon’ to you, Allen – did you hit your head when you fell out of bed?”

He gives Barry an assessing once-over, and what he finds must not be to his liking because he scowls and waves his hand:

“Get back to work – and if you leave without a word again, you _will_ be in the job market sooner than you can say ‘family emergency’, are we clear?”

Barry nods and watches him stalk away, stomach clenching at the thought of Cisco turning into… _this_ , a wealthy businessman without much care for his employees’ problems. Before he can think about whether the confidence and success outweigh the ruthlessness, a hand lands on his shoulder and Barry startles, only to find Duke Kekoa’s grinning face too close for comfort.

“Barry, my man. I’d say you look awful, but it probably saved your ass, so good job looking like a zombie. Let’s go, before Rathaway appears like the demonspawn that he is and convinces Ramon to be more of a dick,” he shudders and Barry wants to say that Hartley’s really not that bad… but he would’ve said the same thing about Cisco ten minutes ago, and now he’s genuinely worried about a job he didn’t know he had.

The research he’s supposed to be working on is pretty advanced, and Barry assumes that his time at Keystone must’ve been spent in the Physics department instead of Forensics. As he is now, he’s got working knowledge of most of the concepts but is nowhere near figuring out why one particular equation doesn’t work. He must spend hours staring at the whiteboards and papers strewn about the office, because the next time Duke pokes his shaved head into Barry’s doorway, he’s babbling about lunch.

Barry follows the guy to the cafeteria, which is a beautiful, large room filled with plants, artwork and tiny tables. It looks like some posh deli and the food includes a wide variety of healthy choices; Barry ends up with a salmon avocado sandwich and spends the lunch break listening to Duke talking about everything and nothing. He’s a nice guy, and Barry can imagine why they’re friends, but he’s a stranger to Barry now and his company doesn’t do much to alleviate Barry’s feelings of displacement.

He spends the rest of the shift staring at his equations, and a couple of times, he even thinks he’s solved it, but none of his ideas work, and by the end of the day, Barry’s tired, lonely and wants to go home.

Except his mother would probably think something’s seriously wrong if he showed up for a sleepover twice in a row, and he has no idea where he lives. With Snart.

He’s contemplating texting the man to come pick him up, which would probably be less conspicuous than asking anyone for his own address, when Duke shows up, a messenger bag swung over his shoulder and car keys dangling from his finger:

“Ready to go?”

This must be some standing arrangement, so Barry doesn’t complain; he doesn’t have any things to pack up, and he knows he should maybe figure out what report he was supposed to do, but he doesn’t have the willpower to focus on it now, so he follows Duke into the company’s parking lot, to a tiny blue car that looks very eco-friendly (and not so much tall-people-friendly).

When he manages to fold his legs inside, Duke gives him a strange look and leans back without starting the engine.

“Now spill. Didn’t want to ask where anyone could hear, but… judging by the state you’re in, I guess it didn’t go well?”

“What?” Barry blinks, and wishes he’d taken some time to root through his phone and maybe Facebook to acquaint himself with his affairs in this world.

Duke raises an eyebrow and looks at Barry as if he’s gone mad. Barry thinks maybe he has. “Your Nobel prize speech, dude. Your _proposal_ , of course – weren’t you supposed to ask Len yesterday?”

Barry’s stomach does a nervous somersault and he swallows, staring into nowhere for a moment, before he thinks he can trust himself to speak.

“There were. Um. Complications.”

Like the fact that he doesn’t remember even _thinking_ about dating Leonard Snart. He suddenly wishes he could tell someone, but he’s too afraid of what would happen if he messed with the timeline. Rationally, he’s aware that time won’t collapse if he starts telling unbelievable stories, but there’s a very real risk that they’d just think he’s gone crazy, and he doesn’t particularly wish for that to happen.

Duke, fortunately, seems to take Barry’s quiet misery as admission of rejection and doesn’t ask any more questions. He drives Barry through Central and stops the car in front of a neat row of tiny houses, somewhere east from the river.

“I’m here if you wanna get drunk, man,” Duke says, with feeling, and Barry considers asking if he can stay with Duke for a while, but he has no idea what the man’s family situation is. He could be living in a tiny rented apartment, or at his parents’ house with five siblings, or maybe he’s already a father himself and doesn’t have room for a colleague whose life has gone weirder than anyone can imagine. So he thanks Duke for the ride and for the offer and gets out of the car, watching it disappear down the road before he turns towards the houses.

He has no idea which one is his, so he looks at the mailboxes and hits the jackpot on the second try. The lawn is green and the stairs creak a little, and Barry’s pretty sure that he’s never been in this part of the city before, not for long, anyway. He fishes keys out of his jacket, with a keychain that claims he hiked in the Grand Canyon national park, and another that looks like a tiny Time-Turner from the Harry Potter movies. It’s ironic, and it makes Barry smile that at least this world also has Harry Potter.

When he opens the door, his stomach growls and something in his chest unwinds and stretches. It smells like home, for the lack of a better word; there’s just something about the space that makes him feel welcome. The front door opens directly into a small living room, with simple furniture and cozy couches, an open plan kitchen at the far end of the house. Barry sinks into the nearest sofa and just takes in the atmosphere. There’s comfort to be found in the space that looks like the choices Barry would’ve made himself, or at least agreed to – unobtrusive blues and beiges and greys, soft-looking materials and simple lines everywhere. Maybe it also helps that he can’t remember any murders, screams or betrayals in this house: it feels safe, in a way even his parents’ house didn’t, space unsullied by tragedy, peace unbroken by his memories from his other life. He closes his eyes and is halfway to drifting off when the front door opens again, and in walks Leonard Snart.

It probably says a great deal about the level of comfort offered by this house that Barry doesn’t even startle; it’s not like he hasn’t thought Snart would show up at some point tonight. It occurs to Barry that Snart’s going to expect them to sleep in the same bed, and his stomach flips again, just a little.

His voice sounds too quiet and too strange when he opens his mouth. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Snart’s eyes are wary as he looks at Barry, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. After a while, when neither of them speaks, Snart pulls his sports jacket off and tosses it over the back of a sofa, walking towards the kitchen. Barry watches him move, fluid and slow and nothing like Captain Cold at all, thin fabric of his button-up stretched over his shoulders when he stands with his back to Barry and looks inside the fridge.

“Spaghetti?” he calls out, like he’s used to asking Barry about dinner just like that, casual and homely and _normal_. Barry doesn’t know what to say, so he says ‘yes’ and keeps staring at Snart, shoulderblades shifting and long-fingered hands pulling out various ingredients from the fridge. At some point, Snart turns on the radio, and soft music of the nondescript variety fills the space. Snart’s hips move to the rhythm, just a little, and Barry thinks about dancing and wonders how he got so lucky.

The thought startles him out of the couch, and Snart looks at him over the shoulder, eyebrow raised, so Barry yelps ‘shower’ and bolts upstairs, hoping that he guessed right where the bathroom could be. It’s becoming a bad habit, citing personal hygiene to get out of uncomfortable situations; he makes the best of it this time and takes a shower for real. The bathroom is filled with the same cozy simplicity seen downstairs, this time mostly in white and silver, and the hot water is bliss on Barry’s tired muscles. He’s never properly appreciated how different a human body could feel under some strain – the Flash’s heightened regeneration made sore muscles a moot point, for the most part, and Barry finds he enjoys the feeling of knots slowly uncoiling in his shoulders as scalding water beats into his skin.

The mirrors are misted over by the time he climbs out and wraps himself in a fluffy blue towel. It occurs to him belatedly that he doesn’t know if the towel’s his or Len’s, and then he has a quiet freak-out over thinking about Snart as ‘Len’. He shaves, just to give himself something to do, even though he doesn’t particularly need to; but the repeated drag of a razor over his skin makes for a good thing to concentrate on, since he doesn’t particularly wish to make himself bleed without his regeneration to come to the rescue. Once that’s done, there’s nothing else he can feign doing in order to prolong his stay in the bathroom – that’s the moment when he realizes he should get dressed, and has no idea where his clothes are, in this house.

The first door he finds leads him to what looks like a study-slash-guest-room, with bookshelves lining one wall, a futon resting against another, and a large desk with a laptop right under the big windows overlooking the street. The draft makes him shiver and the quest for clothes becomes all that more urgent. The next room turns out to be a walk-in closet and Barry’s silently glad that he doesn’t have to go through someone’s bedroom to find himself a pair of underwear, even though this is technically his home, his _bed_.

Barry decides not to think about any beds unless he absolutely has to, and walks to a chest of drawers to figure out if he can distinguish between his and Snart’s boxers. He thinks the ones with little Chewbacca heads printed on them _must_ be his, so he pulls them on and looks around for a similarly geek-coded pair of sweats and a shirt. He ends up with a Hufflepuff shirt in a rather garish yellow (he thinks it matches the one Duke had in his profile picture) and sweatpants with some superhero that Barry doesn’t recognize, but he’s moderately certain that all the clothes he’s wearing are his. Or at least, Barry Allen’s.

He walks down to the kitchen, following the smell of garlic and tomato sauce. It feels awkward to go back to the living room, so he pulls back one of the chairs by the breakfast counter and sits down, watching Le- _Snart_ drain the pasta.

When the man turns back to him, his eyebrow shoots up and a smirk curves his lips as he takes in Barry’s outfit.

“Cute,” he says, and for the moment, sounds so similar to ‘Captain Cold’ that Barry shivers a little and gets up to find himself something in the fridge. Without his metahuman regeneration, maybe he can get drunk enough that the world will stop feeling so strange around him. To his displeasure, there’s not even beer in there, just orange juice and milk and some soda, so he opts for something in a colorful can.

He’s finished half of the soda (grape-flavored, not his favorite, but passable) when a plate is set in front of him. It smells heavenly and Barry digs in, because at least he can remember how to eat and _that_ can’t be so different from what he knows. He can feel Snart’s eyes on him when the man sits down next to Barry, but there are no questions, and Barry lets himself relax a little when Snart effortlessly holds the conversation for both of them, talking about some colleague from work, which only requires ‘uhm’s and ‘oh’s from Barry. He clears the table when they’re both done and washes them by hand, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, and Barry’s almost pleasantly tired from the good food and easy companionship. He wouldn’t have thought that he’d ever get it from Leonard Snart, but something about the house pushes his worries to the back burner and draws him into the quiet comfort of a home, languid and sleepy and safe.

He's trying to figure out the lyrics of some unknown song playing on the radio, and that may be why he doesn’t immediately notice that Snart, having washed the dishes, is leaning against the counter, shoulders squared and fingers digging into the surface like he’s bracing for something, a fight or just a hit.

“Will you talk to me now?” his voice cuts through the air, and tension seeps into Barry’s body, making his back ache.

“What?” he tries to stall, but they both know there’s something to talk about, and just because Barry doesn’t want to, it’s not going away. Snart turns, and he looks almost pained for a split second before he schools his face into a neutral expression and shrugs. His arms cross over his chest, and something about the defensiveness in that gesture doesn’t agree with Barry. He grips his soda can, almost empty by now, and tries his damnedest not to look away, because that would only be an admission of guilt.

Snart’s the one to look away first when he lifts his hand to run it over his head, a nervous gesture if Barry ever saw one. “Come on, Barry. Something’s obviously up. Your mother’s fine, but _you_ aren’t. Will you at least tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Barry lies, too quick, too desperate. Snart frowns and pushes away from the counter. Barry watches him approach and his mind is a confused mixture of ‘please don’t touch me’ and ‘hold me close’. It’s like he suddenly remembers two men: one of them is a hardened criminal who kills people and screws heroes over; the other’s a guy who cooks spaghetti after work and worries about Barry’s mother. There’s a vague memory of comfort and closeness, but it can’t form beyond foggy contours in Barry’s mind, and when Snart crosses the distance between them and settles a hand on Barry’s neck, he manages not to pull away, but just barely.

“You’re lying.” Snart’s voice is quiet and his breath still smells a little like garlic. Barry’s surprised that he doesn’t find it repulsive in the slightest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, because he can’t find it in himself to say ‘no’ – he’s never been a good liar, especially not when it came to people he cared about.

Snart’s eyes search his face and Barry thinks he sees a flash of worry. Then, the older man sighs and shakes his head, collapsing into a chair next to Barry and bracing his elbows on the counter.

“Did you cheat on me?” he asks, serious and resigned, and Barry suddenly knows with horrible, stupid certainty that if he said yes, this man right here would forgive him. He doesn’t know how he can be so sure, but it’s that certainty that makes him reach out and touch Len’s wrist.

“No.”

Blue eyes bore into him, and Barry knows that the simple word is not enough. He has to say something, explain, and his brain is too fuzzy and strange to come up with anything but the truth.

“I… I’ll tell you. The whole truth. But you have to swear that you’ll listen to me, and you won’t think I’ve gone crazy. Deal?”

Snart looks at him for a long while, and Barry thinks he’s going to say ‘no’ – but in the end, the man sighs and shakes his head:

“What choice do I have? Just tell me, Barry.”

“Do you promise to believe me?” Barry insists, even though he knows it’s not a promise anyone can truly keep. “At least promise you’ll try?”

Snart sighs again, but his hand covers Barry’s fingers, still lingering over the man’s wrist, and squeezes once.

“I’ll try.”

And so, Barry talks. About his mother’s murder, about his father’s sentencing, about his life with Joe. He tells Snart about working for CCPD (and doesn’t think about what it means that the guy doesn’t flinch about it), about being struck by lightning, about the coma and the way his heart kept giving out, according to the ECG (Snart flinches then, and his fingers tighten around Barry’s hand). He talks about Eobard, and Cisco, and Caitlin – he mentions Iris, but not his feelings beyond those of a brother and a friend. His throat’s dry by the time he gets to the part about Zoom, and Jay, and his father’s release from prison; Len gets up and brings him more soda and settles back into his chair without a word. Barry fiddles with the can as he explains how he beat Zoom, how Zoom killed his father in front of him, in the same spot his mother died years ago. He chokes when he tries explaining how he felt afterwards, when he should’ve felt victorious and relieved and happy, but instead, there was only haunting emptiness and a sense of loss. He had to try and make it better, try to save his mother one last time, and at the time, no price seemed too high to pay.

The sky has gone completely dark behind the kitchen window by the time Barry’s done, throat and heart raw and aching.

“What about us?” Snart asks quietly. He’s still holding Barry’s hand, and that makes the answer so much harder to voice.

“You’re… we’re not… whatever it is we’re here.” His hand feels cold when Snart’s fingers retreat, but he can’t lie, not after all the truth that has just spilled from his lips. “You’re a criminal. Thief. And I’m… my job is catching people like you.”

He dares to glance at Snart then, and he’s met with an expression so stormy, so miserable, that he feels the need to think of all the good things, however few and far between they are.

“You warned me once. When someone else wanted to hurt me. You broke into my house to do it, but you warned me. And I heard you went away after that, to help save the world.”

Snart’s mouth twists into a wry smirk and he shakes his head, without a word. Barry wishes he could say something else, but he never had the time to sit around and get to know the people he was fighting. He knows more about Snart than he would want to, courtesy of that time with Lewis, but it still isn’t pretty, none of it, and he doesn’t think any mentions of parental abuse would help this situation.

Snart is the one to break the tense silence in the end.

“If you say you’re not my Barry… then where is he?”

Barry never thought about his other self, the one who grew up in this world, the one his parents have brought up. He just knows he’s not the Barry who picked the carpets for this house and bought a ring for Leonard Snart.

For one suffocating second, he wishes he was.

Snart lets out a long breath and gets up, and something in Barry desperately wants to stop him, but he has no words of consolation, no way of making this any easier. He stares at his soda can and wonders why it feels like his heart is splitting in two when he already decided yesterday to break things off with Snart, as soon as he could. But he selfishly doesn’t want to give up the comfort of telling someone the whole truth – Snart knows who he is now, and Barry doesn’t know what he’ll do with the information, but at least there’s one place now, one person, for whom Barry doesn’t have to pretend.

“I’ll sleep in the study,” Snart says, and that’s not as much of a relief as it should be.

Barry still waits until the sounds of running water and bare feet disappear with a quiet click of a door. He moves upstairs then, to a bedroom he doesn’t recognize at all, and chooses the side of the bed that looks like it could be his.

When he buries his face in the pillow, it doesn’t smell familiar, but Barry, exhausted, falls asleep anyway.

…

“You think you have won?” Zoom asks, his dark mask contorted into a malicious sneer. “You think you are safe now, Flash? You will _never_ be safe from me!“

They’re standing in the middle of his parents‘ house, in the same room where his mother and his father have been killed, and Barry is rooted to the spot. The speed force vibrates impatiently underneath his skin, but when he reaches for it, there’s only emptiness and he can’t move.

There’s a figure held hostage, one of Zoom’s large arms draped across the torso. Barry can’t see the face, and for a moment, he thinks it’s a woman’s shape, but it morphs in the next second into distinctly male shoulders and a narrow waist. Suddenly, Barry knows who it is – startled blue eyes look at him in horror and Len mouths ‘Barry, run’, but he can’t, he can’t move, he doesn’t have his powers and Zoom is there, his laugh shrill and his claws sharp, Len arches back and his mouth opens in a silent cry as Zoom’s fingers, covered in blood, slip out through the center of Len’s chest, and Barry can’t do anything else but scream.

And suddenly he’s sitting on a bed, tangled in sheets and soaked in cold sweat, reaching in the darkness for something- some _one-_

Air wheezes and hurts in his chest as he tries to breathe when he only finds an empty bed where Len should be. He draws up his knees, curls forward and laces his fingers over the back of his neck, but it doesn’t make him feel any safer. He can still see the dark mask, hear the cackling and the sick squelch of blood, and he shivers, damp and cold and terrified, tries to listen for the tell-tale sounds of screaming in the house, but Len didn’t scream, Len just opened his mouth and… _died_ and Barry couldn’t do a thing-

“Barry!”

He startles, but it’s Len bursting into the bedroom, and Barry almost sobs in relief when he feels the mattress dip and suddenly there’s a warm hand on his shoulder. Barry uncurls just enough to fall forward, into Len’s chest, tightening his arms around the older man’s shoulders. He doesn’t even care if it hurts, he only wants to keep Len here, alive, where Barry can at least try to protect him.

Len shifts, and Barry tightens his hold with, a thin, worried sound escaping his throat.

“Shhh, okay, okay, I’m not going anywhere, just… let me,” Len murmurs, and his voice doesn’t quite work like magic, but it lets Barry ease his death grip enough for Len to twist in his arms and settle on the bed, pulling Barry close, arms looping around Barry’s waist, hands stroking his back in slow, repetitive motions.

They lie together like that and seconds tick by to the frantic beating of Barry’s heart. When he has finally stopped shivering, Len turns his head, presses his mouth into Barry’s still-damp hair, and murmurs, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Barry doesn’t, but he’s not sure his voice won’t betray him if he tries to speak at all, so he surges up and kisses Len, a little more desperate than usual, but he needs the reassurance that at least something’s right when everything in his life seems to be going wrong. Len tastes a little stale, a little like toothpaste, and Barry can’t get enough of that feeling of belonging, of safety, even though the vivid reminder of Len’s mortality still pops up behind his eyelids without prompting.

As the adrenaline slowly filters out of his system, he’s left boneless and aching and exhausted, and all he can do in the end is curl into Len’s side, hide himself in the crook of Len’s neck, and go back to sleep.

Before he drifts off, he can feel Len’s breath tangle into his hair in a quiet whisper, but he can’t make out the words, and then he’s gone.

….

The morning bathes the room in a soft, warm glow and Barry stretches, half-asleep, enjoying the quiet moment before he has to get up. He’s alone, and it shouldn’t feel strange because he went to sleep without anyone beside him, but for some reason, it makes his eyes snap open. It takes his sluggish brain a moment to recognize the room, and his heart picks up the pace before he remembers where he is. The memories of that night slam into him like a physical punch and he takes a deep, steadying breath – but he pushes himself up and lets his feet touch the fluffy rug on the ground. He cannot hide in here forever, even though he wants to, more than anything; this is the life he wanted, with his parents still alive, and if it has to come with nightmares… well, he can only hope those will fade in time.

A tiny voice in his head whispers that maybe they won’t, maybe something bad will happen again when he least expects it and he won’t be able to protect anyone without his speed… but he silences that invasive voice as best he can and walks to the bathroom. The toothpaste tastes like Snart’s mouth did last night and Barry has to take a moment to steady himself. It made sense, when he was out of his mind with fear, to turn to Snart for comfort, like the man could chase away all the bad with just his presence. It felt natural to reach for him, to kiss him and fall asleep breathing him in – it felt like something he has done numerous times, the scent and sound and _feel_ of Snart (of _Len_ ) familiar and comforting and right. But now, by daylight, Barry’s stomach twists into nervous knots at the thought of having to face Snart again.

The smell of bacon that drifts up from the kitchen chases away any hope that Snart has already left for the day; Barry briefly considers pretending he’s still asleep, but it won’t accomplish anything in the long run.

And, if he’s completely honest, there’s a part of him that _wants_ to go downstairs and see Snart in his worn shirt and baggy pajama pants. That part of him, somehow, knows that Snart’s making scrambled eggs to go with the bacon, that his toast is the right side of crispy and that he’ll have coffee waiting for Barry in his favorite mug. It’s a part of himself that he doesn’t recognize: he has no clue how he knows these things, but suspicion builds like a knot in his throat, making him swallow even though his mouth is suddenly dry.

There is no way for him to know any of it, and there’s no reason for him to feel like he did last night, like sleeping with Snart’s arm around him is exactly the way he wants to go to bed for the rest of his life. No way, except maybe, when he changed the past, he somehow managed to start changing himself, too.

Barry meets his own eyes in the mirror, and it feels like someone else is staring at him, someone with his face and with a ring bought for Leonard Snart in his pocket. He remembers the Time-Turner keychain, and he remembers the trip to Orlando _he_ never took, except he did, with Duke and his girlfriend Abby and a slightly reluctant, but secretly amused Len. It feels like he’s in a Harry Potter movie now, peering at his heart’s deepest desires in a mirror, except it seems like the mirror is showing him what _could_ be in his heart, if he let it.

It’s warm and fuzzy and more than a little scary, but he’s never been one to turn tail and run, so he descends the stairs and wills his heart to slow down, just a little.

Snart turns around when Barry takes his seat at the breakfast counter, and his smile is so unmistakably ‘Len’ that it makes Barry feel a bit faint. How can he remember Snart being a vicious criminal, and then feel like this just because his face lights up with his dorky smiles?

The way his heartbeat picks up only confirms Barry’s suspicion, and he lets out a shaky breath. “I think I know where your Barry is.”

“Good morning to you too.”

The coffee smells divine when Snart sets the mug in front of him, but Barry’s too agitated to pay it much attention.

“I think that when I changed the past, I erased the future I know, so now I’m… I remember what it was like before, but sometimes it feels like I remember you as you are _now_ , and-“

“And you _are_ my Barry,” Snart finishes the sentence and Barry blinks. The explanation only struck him moments ago, but Snart doesn’t seem surprised at all – he just sits down next to Barry, his body language open and sincere as he reaches for Barry’s hand. Barry lets him twine their fingers together, and it only feels slightly strange. He focuses on Snart’s – Len’s – voice, quiet and steady, grounding him in the present even though Barry’s mind is all over the place.

“I know it might all seem new to you, but I’ve known you for five years. Dated you for most of that time, shared this house with you for the past fifteen months. I know you, Barry, and you still sleep the same. Kiss the same.”

Instinctively, Barry wants to blurt out ‘I know you too’, but it’s not true, not really. His knowledge ebbs and flows in unpredictable patterns and he can’t put a finger on so many things; he doesn’t remember whether Len likes to sleep in over the weekends or how he takes his coffee, there’s just a lingering, nagging certainty that he _should_. He closes his mouth as guilt washes over him, but Len only squeezes his hand and shakes his head:

“Don’t blame yourself. You did what you had to, no use trying to take it back now. We have to deal with it – together.”

He sounds unshakable in his conviction that they’ll weather this storm, like there’s no other outcome imaginable, and it takes the last bit of strength out of Barry, the last straw he didn’t know he was clinging to. His eyes sting with tears and just as they start to spill, Len slides off his chair and wraps Barry up in his arms, one hand in Barry’s hair, pulling him close, the other around his back.

Barry lets himself go boneless for a moment and buries his face in Len’s chest. It reminds him of the nightmare and he’s clutching Len’s shirt tight before he even knows what he’s doing. He never thought that after seeing his parents get murdered, after forcibly yanking them away from that fate, Leonard Snart would end up the person he couldn’t stand to lose, but just the memory of Zoom’s sneer and Len’s vacant eyes makes Barry choke.

“What if,” he starts, then swallows to get rid of the edge of hysteria in his voice. It doesn’t quite work and he drops into a whisper, hoping he won’t sound quite that desperate, “what if I’ll never be the man you fell for? What if it’s never enough?”

The fingers in his hair tug and he looks up, feeling like a rag doll when Len cradles his head in his hands, brushes Barry’s tears away with his thumbs.

“But you _are_ , Barry. We all change in time – even though not many of us _travel_ through it. At least you’re finally putting your dirty socks in the hamper,” he smirks, and it makes Barry laugh a bit, the sound wet and almost sad in his throat.

Barry might not remember all about Len, but this moment right here makes him want to stay and at least _try_. He still remembers Iris too vividly, the way she looked and the way she kissed, the way she promised to wait for him… but his body seems to remember Len differently, as someone already _his_ , someone solid and real and there, not an unattainable ideal to strive for. It makes him want to remember all the other things, too, whichever way he can. He has a feeling that it won’t be as impossible as it seemed not too long ago – his memories of the previous night are hazy at best, but he remembers the fear that gripped his heart at the thought of losing Len, and the steady heartbeat lulling him back to sleep, strong arms shielding him from the pain.

Two days ago, Barry was absolutely certain he would have to put an end to this madness. Right now, sitting in the warm, sunlit kitchen, looking at Len, he cannot imagine losing him. It terrifies Barry, to feel so dependent, so bound to a man he mostly knows as an enemy; but the idea of staying makes something in his chest settle down, like he’s found what he was looking for in the most unexpected place of all. And all of a sudden, he wants to know how they came to be, how they met and how their first date went; he has a feeling that maybe, he will remember most of it in time, but he can’t be certain, and he needs to know every detail, just in case. He wants to wake up every morning, certain of who he is and why _they_ are, and even though he’s aware that might not happen for a very long time, he still wants to give it a try.

“Will you tell me about… about us?” he asks, and Len smiles at him and kisses his forehead and then pats his thigh, pulling the coffee closer to Barry.

“I will. But I believe you have to go to work now – the old you would never forgive me if I let you pass up the opportunity to meet ‘ _the_ Harrison Wells’.”

The way Len emphasizes the last three words makes Barry feel like he’s being mocked, with all the love and care and distinct, fond amusement. He doesn’t feel particularly excited about seeing Wells, but he does wonder how life’s been treating him in this timeline, and it would probably seem strange if he suddenly lost interest. He thinks of the young man he used to be, getting so excited he couldn’t stop talking when he saw Harrison Wells for the first time, and he thinks he can channel a bit of that excitement, for the sake of appearances.

He already feels tired, thinking of the day of pretense ahead of him – but he takes a gulp of the perfect coffee and focuses on getting to come home to Len.

…

Barry almost talks himself out of it before he even reaches the coffee shop. He feels a bit like a stalker as he takes his place in the line and waits for a latte or a mocha or something else he likely won’t remember, because it’s not coffee he’s here for. It’s only because of Len he’s here in the first place – Len who said that Barry should get closure, as much as possible in the world that doesn’t play by the rules he’s grown up knowing.

Closure, when it comes to Iris, is a slippery slope, and Barry knows: he’s been there, tried to do it and couldn’t. But the thing is, even after a year, there are still days when he wakes up missing her, as his sister and best friend, if not as something else, and he needs to do this, needs to see with his own eyes the price he’s decided to pay in order to have his parents back.

Len was not included in the initial calculations, but now, Barry’s coming to think the price might not have been too steep after all.

He looks around and shifts on his feet: crowds make him nervous, sometimes, but today’s been good so far. No; the tingles and knots in his stomach are the courtesy of the new CCPD recruits who march into the coffee shop, laughing with each other and pushing at each other playfully.

Barry recognizes two of them, from his previous life, as he’s come to call it, and it warms his heart a little, to think that some people’s lives were so steady that they still turned out the same, even in this world.

And then the group of recruits shifts and parts and there she is, tossing her head back and laughing exactly the way Barry remembers, radiant as ever and so obviously happy he soaks in the sight of her and thinks that maybe, he’s done the right thing after all, not just for himself, but for everyone.

It all started out as a selfish reach for the one thing he could think of that would keep him from falling off the edge – but Barry has seen this world, in the year that he’s spent here. He’s seen Cisco, sharp and ambitious and maybe a bit obsessed with money, but so very much in love whenever Hartley steps into the room that it’s hard to begrudge him anything else (though Duke tries, whenever Cisco tears him a new one for falling behind on some project). Barry’s seen Wells, too, and Jesse, and Jesse’s mother who never died in this world.

He’s still seeing Caitlin, who, as it turns out, has a hand in this world’s Team Flash as well. Barry’s yet to meet the Flash himself, but he would recognize Wally’s grin under any mask, not that he lets on. It’s not his secret to spill, and not his place to engage with any criminals that cross the Flash’s path – it has taken him six months to get to a place where he could admit that he did not have his powers and they were not coming back, and maybe, that was for the best. Caitlin has helped with that significantly. One of her doctorates is in psychology and it may be a bit of a divergence from the woman he used to know, as is the name ‘Caitlin Rory’ on her door, but she seems happy and Barry sometimes wishes he could talk to her about how ridiculous it is they both ended up with the men they have.

Iris is the only loose end, and Barry almost dreads tying it up, because then he will have nothing to fall back on, no particular situation or meeting to go through that could help him get that closure. He knows he will keep having his bad days, but the good have been much more frequent lately, and he draws his hope from that.

The group of recruits is just a couple of feet from Barry, so he swallows, finds his courage and his voice, and plasters a casual smile on his face.

“Iris West?”

She pauses and looks around, and her eyes land on him in a mixture of confusion and vague recognition. She doesn’t know who he is – that much is obvious even before she scrunches up her face in that thoughtful expression she’s always had and untangles from her group, taking a few steps closer. Watching her try to remember him hurts, but Barry smiles through it; he’s glad she’s happy, even though he doesn’t get to be a part of it, not anymore.

“Barry,” he helps her, and when it doesn’t ring a bell, he adds, “Barry Allen.”

It still takes her a couple of seconds to place the name. “Do I- oh, right! Central High, right? Barry! Hey, how have you been?”

“Good,” he tells her, and he’s surprised that he means it, for real. He resolutely doesn’t think of all the things they’ve been through, together – she’s not that woman, and she deserves to be happy, without any metahumans threatening her life, without stepbrothers turned maybe-boyfriends, too damaged to love her the way he should have. The voice in his head that berates him for thinking about himself that way sounds suspiciously like Len. “Actually, I’m getting married in May.”

She congratulates him with a huge smile and demands to see a picture, and then teases him about his ‘hot fiancé’, and it’s almost nice. But there’s a distance between them, and she keeps glancing towards her friends. It’s a little sad to think she won’t even see his wedding, that he can’t invite her without it sounding weird, that he’s not allowed to ask about Joe or Wally or Eddie. He doesn’t want her to remember him as that weird clingy classmate she met once in a coffee shop, so he lets her go, with vague smiles and impossible promises to call and meet up. He only allows himself another moment, another glance her way and then he’s gone, without coffee and without all that much closure.

He puts his feet in Len’s lap when he gets home and the melancholy fades, not completely, but enough.

…

“I’m so proud of you,” his mother says, and her eyes are too bright under her fancy red-rimmed glasses. Barry chuckles and kisses her cheek, just lightly so he doesn’t smear her makeup, even though they both know it’s gonna be smudged beyond repair through the ceremony.

“I love you,” he smiles at her, and the words come out less desperate now and more how they should be, warm and kind and certain.

The music starts, and he looks at himself one last time – their eyes meet in the mirror and her tears spill, leaving wet trails down her cheeks, all the way to her smile. Barry’s throat tightens, but it’s not the bad kind: it feels like laughing and crying at the same time. She squeezes his shoulder and motions to the door, and he wants to soak up her presence a little bit longer, as he has ever since he got her back – there will always be a part of him that will feel awkward in this world, awkward and ten years old and wishing to hold on to his mother.

But that part is silent today, and Barry’s heart races as he moves to the door, towards the life he fell into and that fits him better than he could’ve ever imagined.

Len is stunning in his tuxedo, matching but not identical to Barry’s, and his eyes are bright as well. He smiles, and Barry’s heart melts. There’s no doubt this is right; there is no part of Barry that doesn’t want to take Len’s hand and walk with him down the narrow isle of the tiny church, surrounded by their closest family and friends, in a world that doesn’t know its end. It feels almost blasphemous, to think that all the worst stuff is in the past now – Barry wonders, briefly, whether this is what a happy ending feels like, this unwavering knowledge that whatever comes, nothing will ever erase the love he feels for the man at his side. And maybe he’s tempting fate: the thought makes him shiver, but Len’s right there with his firm grip and his kind smile, and Barry regains his footing.

Six in the morning on May 20th, 2017, is the last time Barry wishes he could have his powers, if only for a minute. He would run back in time to tell his younger self, struggling and hurting and uncertain, that saving his mother would eventually change the world, but it would be for the better: but then, he wonders if he would somehow earn this much happiness, without all the previous pain.

He snuggles closer to Len, both of them sweaty and tired and too sleepy to even attempt any consummation of their marriage, and lets go of that last strand of his old self. There could have been two Barry Allens – but there will only ever be one Barry Allen-Snart.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/).


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